Meme

I stare in the ceiling, imagining the Milky Way as a sweet fantasy above the earth, beyond my grasping mind. Twelve Ante Meridian harkens a new episode of insomnia. Lyrics will determinedly stand, journey throughout my brain to their respective positions, and barricade any chance of sleep, so I lie in a medium, a viscous state covered by the blanket of unconsciousness and pricked with the needle of consciousness. In effervescent moments, the ceiling seeps into the culmination of colors above, becoming the night's sky, and I realize that I will never sleep this way. So, I write. I evade the night. I put my words into my feelings in an attempt to stabilize the intensity of electrified neurons creating vivid emoticons: happy/sad, excited/bored, angry/passive... a pastoral scene of modern, fruitless fields, a postmodern envisioning of the gardens of Kubla Khan, rainy glasses, rose-colored window panes, historical figures I forgot anew, and references to insignificant tidbits learned in school. In my sight, crimsons mix with violent tangerines; grey blues seep into nebulous neon shades. All of my secrets escape my mind and reveal themselves through projected thoughts and protected diction; and, though I am no dictionary, my words make no sense, so I lie awake all night trying to decipher what it means. Apparently, I am dreaming again.